Books

A boy called Jack, as I've been told 
Would sit for hours-good as gold-
Not with pile, like Master Horner,
And plums, for dainties, in his corner,
But silent in some chosen nook
And spell-bound-by a story-book!
Whether the dawn brought sun or rain,
Back to it's pages he'd hasten again;
He had even wheedled from his friends
A secret hoard of candle-ends,
And slumber far from his round head-
Would real, till dead of night-in bed!